


At the Edge of Myself

by pan_ismyhomeboy



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (not as a central theme but one of the cases they look into), Canon-Typical Violence, Hate Crimes, Kinkmeme, M/M, mental breakdowns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-13 23:47:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pan_ismyhomeboy/pseuds/pan_ismyhomeboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will breaks down in tears at a crime scene and Hannibal's there to guide him toward home. His home, of course -- and emotional comfort always comes with a price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a kinkmeme prompt looking for Will breaking down and Hannibal there to comfort him with a hug.

There is no single element that triggers Will Graham tonight; looking back over the night's events, such as he remembers them, gives him only a faint, hazy feeling of unease that mounts and mounts with every minute at the crime scene. Maybe it's been one too many nights without sleep, or too few days since finding the corpse of Dr. Peter Sutcliffe ripped wide open in his unlocked office. Maybe it's the way the dog whimpers and whines at yet more strangers in her master's house, shying away in the corner with blood soaked into her fur. Maybe it's the single, child-sized footprint he finds at the end off the hall, where the corpses of a man and his husband lay flayed open for all to see.

 _They deserved it_ , he thinks numbly as his knees buckle. He sits back, so careful now not to contaminate another scene, not to mix his prints with those of the killer's. _They had it coming, a pre-meditated act of rage--_

Jack opens the door and Will does not see him, does not hear him as the players take the stage before his eyes. Does not choose to see or hear him at least, shying away from him like the terrified and now orphaned golden retriever in the front room, like the terrified and probably dead child that walked in on the murder of her daddies and tried to flee in fear.

"I didn't know," Will says hoarsely, glasses fogging with the hot tears welling from his eyes. "I didn't know they had a child. I would have -- I don't kill innocents. She shouldn't have been there."

"Will," Jack says softly, reaching for his shoulder, and in that moment of well-meaning kindness Will Graham splinters apart.

"I can't," he manages before he forgets how to breathe and his glasses are on the floor and he's sobbing, sobs that literally wrench his gut and put a vice grip around his throat. He's rocking back and forth from knees to heels, heels to knees, fingernails catching in the messy wool of his sweater. " _Can't_." Can't do this anymore, can't breathe, can't make Jack see and understand.

Jack yells something that Will doesn't understand, wracked and wrecked with tears as he is. Strong arms grasp him under his own and haul him up, all but dragging him away from the scarlet and crimson and ruby-red staining the walls and Will's mind. He watches until he can't, until a heavy hand covers his eyes and a voice whispers in his ear, "I need you to breathe for me, William."

(Later, he'll hear how both Jack and Dr. Lecter had to drag him out of the room together and how he fought so hard to stay at the scene of his crime. Later, bits and pieces will filter back to him in a dream that drives him to jolt awake in the middle of the night with a scream dying on his tongue.)

He tries to sob Hannibal's name, tries to cry for breath and _listen_ to the words in his ear but he's drowning in everything that's not him but is inside him anyway. He turns blindly, clutching at arms draped in expensive fabric that pull Will in and hold him close. Now there's silk, cool and soft and smooth under Will's cheek and all he can think about is how disgusting he must seem, all snot and tears and mental breakdowns.

Hannibal keeps murmuring in a voice as low and absolutely certain as the distant rumble of thunder. Will isn't sure if he's speaking in English or not -- later he'll remember snatches of French and something else, something from further east that he can't recognize -- but it doesn't matter; the intention is clear enough. The doctor shifts to sit down, cradling Will in his arms like precious cargo as the younger man continues to fall apart in his arms.

The chest supporting Will rises and falls with a steady clarity and he eventually registers that he's being told again to breathe. He gasps and splutters and _whimpers_ , God, just like the dog sitting in the corner and the memory of the damn dog sends him into another bout of hysterics. The hand comes back across his eyes and Will throws his arms around Hannibal's shoulders, for all the world looking like an oversized child caught in the throes of yet another night terror.

(He's aware, vaguely, of others in the room, of eyes on the two grown men hugging on the floor in the middle of an FBI investigation. It will be a source of embarrassment come Monday, two days and an eternity from now.)

"Feel my breath," Hannibal says, chest slowly expanding and falling under Will's cheek. "Listen for my heartbeat. Can you hear it?"

Will nods, then turns to press his face against the lapel of the other man's suit, a quiet moan in his throat. "I'm, I'm sorry, I'm so..."

Hannibal caresses the back of his head and murmurs, "Follow my breath. Breathe with me. Follow me home."

It takes a long, long time before the sobbing subsides, and even then Will feels lightheaded and sick to his stomach. Strong fingers urge his face away from the safety of the other man's chest and toward an open bottle of water, gently tilted forward. He drinks slowly, feeling empty, feeling spent. He pulls away and burrows once again into Hannibal's jacket, heat rising to his cheeks as he begins to come back to himself.

"If it's all the same to you," Hannibal says coolly, "I think I'll take William home for the night. You can question him in the morning."

It takes Will a moment to realize he's not the one being spoken to, and another to realize that for once, Jack Crawford has no objections.

The room swirls around Will as Dr. Lecter helps him up, and though Will's knees do not buckle a second time he finds himself nearly unable to walk. The good doctor is strong though and steers him through the throng of FBI agents.

"Close your eyes, Will," Hannibal says softly, and Will does. It's better this way, so he can't see the gawking faces or Beverly's worried looks or the way Jimmy and Brian exchange knowing smirks with each other. He doesn't have to see the disappointment etched over Jack's face either.

Will Graham, broken at last. He'd laugh now if he had the energy and breath to spare. As it is he just gives a half-sob, half-hiccup, and Hannibal squeezes his shoulders more tightly. Will's never thought about it before, but Dr. Lecter is far stronger than his age and build might belie, or maybe he's just never paid close attention to the older man's build under his expensive suits. There's no doubt in his mind that, if need be, the doctor could sling Will over his shoulder -- or carry him off in both arms like a damsel in distress, there's a fucking well-needed laugh for the night -- if Will finds himself unable to walk at all. Right now though, he can walk, just barely, and he welcomes the winter night's stinging slap in the face. His breath comes in ragged gasps, mingling with Hannibal's as the other man carefully steers him to the car.

Hannibal helps him into the passenger's side door and Will has the sense of a parent tucking his child into bed, adjusting his seat and pulling the seatbelt over Will's shaking body.

"Do you know where you are?" Hannibal asks quietly, looking up into Will's eyes. It would be a surprise to see Will making eye contact so readily if he didn't have the thousand-yard stare of those viciously caught between traumas. 

Hannibal repeats the question and Will asks, dully, "Is the dog alright?"

"She is alive," he tells him, hand on Will's face, thumb stroking his jaw. A physical anchor to the real world, nothing so banal as affection.

(Of course not, Will manages to think bitterly through this haze -- and really, what sort of broken person even has these thoughts after viewing the remains of a double, maybe triple homicide? -- of course there is no affection in the touch, no intimacy, no love. Why would a man like Dr. Lecter give it to a man like Will? What has Will done to deserve it, when he cannot even control his own gift to help the FBI bring a murderer to justice?)

Tears well up again from Will's tired eyes and he tries to turn his head away from the touch. Hannibal reaches for both sides of Will's face and holds him still, examining the silent tears and the fevered, wet look to Will's eyes. When he takes out a handkerchief to brush away the dampness, Will starts crying again in earnest. He tries to explain that the material is too soft, too kind, the way Jack's hand was too kind in front of the mutilated bodies, and though he's not even sure he can make sense at this point, Hannibal seems to understand nonetheless. Dr. Lecter puts the cloth away and replaces it with his thumbs, still soft but with just enough callus and nail to quiet Will down into the occasion hiccup. He closes his eyes and leans into the touch, murmuring another apology.

"I'm going to take you home, William. To my home. I don't want you alone tonight."

"Dogs..."

"We'll visit them tomorrow morning, _after_ you've rested."

Will gives the smallest of nods and Hannibal reaches around him for another hug. There's only so much Will can reciprocate given his exhaustion and the seatbelt (and he wonders if the seatbelt is meant to remind him of a straitjacket or if he really is just crazy and should stop paying attention to his free associations altogether) but he leans into the other man for a long, long moment. Hannibal finally pulls away and shuts the car door, and Will closes his eyes.

The driver's side door opens a few moments later and the car rumbles to life, heater clicking on without missing a beat. Will's car takes several minutes and well-aimed smacks to the dashboard before warming up in the winter, but Dr. Lecter can clearly afford a better class of vehicle. Will slumps in his seat and enjoys the rush of warm air against his freezing skin, as much as he can enjoy anything right now. They start to move and Will stares dully ahead at the darkness just outside the window.

Hannibal glances over at him and murmurs, "Do you know what time it is?"

Will wants to laugh, brokenly, at what is becoming ritual for them. "It's... it's nighttime."

"Look at your watch, Will."

Will looks down after a long moment, staring at the face of his watch and how the numbers swarm in front of his eyes. He looks at the digital clock beneath the controls for the car stereo, but that's not much clearer. "I don't know."

"Do you know where you are?"

He looks out the window at the bare trees and darkened houses of normal suburban families. "On a road."

Hannibal waits for him to continue; when he does not, the doctor presses on. "Do you know who you are?"

Will sways for a moment, swallows, breath hesitating before he shakes his head numbly. "No," he says, voice strained. "No. Not now."

Will closes his eyes against the violent energy reverberating within his skull. He's got a headache coming on, a full-blown migraine if he's any judge, fueled by the terrified and fatalistic fear that tells him it's no use running because he's already been caught. His name is Will, he _knows_ that, but it's a far stone's throw between his name and who he is.

"Then who are you?" Hannibal asks after a few seconds (or maybe a few minutes, or hell, maybe an hour -- it's not like clocks have done any good for Will for a long time). "Who is the man speaking to me right now?"

There's a swirl of impression and gut instincts, both muted and vivid in turn. He wets his lips, purses them tightly, bites his tongue. "I didn't want them dead," he says, lies heavy in his mouth. "I just wanted to talk, to confront them about, about, it's not _fair_." He sounds petulant and he _feels_ petulant, but even through the foreign tension in his mind it feels a relief to confess his sins.

Hannibal doesn't look away from the road, but there's no doubt his full attention is on the other man. "What's not fair, Will?"

Again, that name that doesn't feel completely his. Will takes a deep breath and opens his eyes, blinking slowly as the images play across his vision. "I have a gun," he says slowly. "And a knife. I'm ready to -- to do what has to be done. I just want to talk but I know they won't listen."

"A jealous lover?"

Will rubs his face and jerks his shoulders in the approximation of a shrug. "Too simple, too clean, you either shoot or stab an unfaithful partner, you don't do _both_." His tone is sharp and clipped, angry at the person in his head who refuses to make sense.

"A hate crime, then."

"Maybe. Maybe, maybe, they deserved it." He runs shaking hands through his hair, fingers getting snatched on knotted curls. "I planned it out but I was nervous, scared of the act, _what act are you talking about_ , the murder, the sex? No, no, something else." He holds himself tightly and is settled enough in his own mind to realize that he's talking with himself and is, by all definitions, absolutely insane. He curls forward as far as the seatbelt will allow, staring at his worn boots, jeans with the threadbare knees. "She wasn't supposed to _be there_."

Hannibal finally spares him a glance before merging onto the interstate that will return them to Baltimore. "The dog?"

"The _dog_? No, no the little _girl_ ," Will snaps, a sneer curling his lips. "The girl who saw me, the girl who lived there, I was never going to kill anyone until--" His throat closes up again and he lets out a pained, frustrated cry, digging fingernails against the fleshy heel of his thumb. "I'm not a murderer! I'm not!"

"I believe you," Hannibal says quietly.

"I'm not," Will say with desperation, trying to curl tighter into himself.

"What went wrong?"

Will shakes his head and jumps a bit when he presses too hard and his nails break the skin. He stares at the crescent-shaped well of blood, the reddened and irritated skin where he'd been scratching his palm for the past several minutes. His head drops to suck at the blood, darkly satisfied at the pain and the copper splash across his tongue. "I don't know," he mumbles into his skin. "I don't know."

He closes his eyes but the memories are receding deeper into his mind, someplace nonverbal and hidden where he can't touch them anymore. The ghost in his mind disappears and he murmurs, "My name is Will Graham. I don't know where I am or what time it is, but... my name is Will Graham."

Hannibal looks at him again and simply says, "Yes it is."


	2. Chapter 2

Much of the drive is silent as Will comes to grips with himself, steeled against the expected inevitability of the foreign presence in his mind rearing its ugly head again. It's not something he's ever told anyone, least of all to Jack who already questions his sanity with all the piety of a heretic, but on some nights after particularly bad cases, after not taking care of himself like he should or just because it's Thursday, the people in his head don't exactly leave. Not that they're _there_ to begin with -- not exactly, not if we want to be precise about it -- but there in the sense that Will can feel their blood pumped within his veins, the set of their teeth in his mouth, the churning bile of their stomach, the words that want to form on their lips. He channels them. He _knows_ them, as fully and completely as one could ever know another human being, understands them, and in brief flashes _is_ them, or at least thinks he is. They are, without question, manifest in his mind and body, utterly possessing him in a way that bypasses Jack's dominance or Hannibal's charm or Alana's distant sympathies. He loses himself in them. He invites them in, makes them coffee, gives them a bed and allows them to assault his senses until _he_ fades away into nothingness.

He wants it. He craves it. It gives him meaning and purpose, but more than that it gives him _connection_. It's the purest salve for utter loneliness he's ever found and even among the dying and damned he'll take his company where he finds it.

Even as he's driven to nightmares and cold sweats and the ever-growing strength of his hallucinations, he misses them when they've finally excised themselves from his mind. There is comfort in knowing he's not alone in his insanity (even as this all just proves that he is, in fact, alone in his insanity), in knowing a rhythm and pattern to his madness. He knows what kind of crazy he is and this... this is _it_. This is where he has been his entire life.

There's a moment when he thinks he's explaining this all to Dr. Lecter quite rationally and listening to the psychiatrist's measured responses, finding some glimmer of reassurance at being treated as a human and not a head case. The doctor says something and Will laughs, or thinks he does, and there's the strangest sensation of feeling time drift away. The car seems to accelerate, Will's heartbeat seems to slow, and in his mind he leans in toward the other man to catch something that is very, very important for him to hear. Everything will make sense, everything will be well if he can just concentrate.

"Will?"

Will opens his eyes. "What did you just say?"

Hannibal decelerates before a red light and turns to look at his passenger. "Nothing but your name. You had drifted away from us. Very far away, it seems."

Will blinks and reaches to adjust his glasses before he remembers he left them at the crime scene, in front of a cooling pool of blood by the bed of a married couple, til death do them part. "You... you said something," he says uncertainly. "You were telling me I wasn't crazy."

"I'm glad the version of myself you keep in your head behaved himself, then."

"It's not funny." Will's mouth tastes and feels like old leather, his lips parched. The bottle of water at the crime scene feels like a mirage from ages ago.

"Then it's very good I'm not in the habit of making jokes."

"Light's green," Will says, cheeks heating under the attention. He drops his gaze and slouches in his seat.

Hannibal remains quiet a few moments longer before the car begins to move again. "We're nearly there," he promises. "Are you hungry?"

"I can't imagine ever eating again, to be honest."

"When did you last eat?" When Will doesn't answer, Hannibal nods. "That settles it then. You'll shower while I prepare a late dinner."

"I don't need a shower," Will says too quickly. "I'm fine. Can I help cook?"

"Do you really think you should be around sharp objects and open flames in your condition?"

Will half shrugs, half slumps against his seatbelt and returns to staring out the window. Of course not -- there's not a single reason Hannibal even  _needs_ to ask that question becasue even though Will isn't feeling entirely self-destructive right now, god only knows what might happen if he loses time in the kitchen.

(He remembers waking up in the silent MRI machine, the darkened room, the startling splash of blood across the door handle. Remembers Dr. Sutcliffe -- more accurately, his  _head_ \-- split wide open, and Will doesn't even know how the top half of his skull is still hanging on. How do you even saw through someone's face like that, how do you kill someone without getting a drop of blood on you, how did he manage to do this and fool everyone, fool Beverly's tools, fool his own memory?)

He struggles for several long moments with how to explain all this before mumbling, "I don't want to be alone."

"Then I will not allow you to be," Hannibal says, as though it's the simplest thing in the world.

Will closes his eyes and presses a fevered cheek to the cold window. "You gonna follow me home, to class, in the shower?"

"If that is what you need, then yes."

"I don't need your pity."

"Absolutely not," Hannibal agrees. "But what you do need is my help."

Will doesn't know what to say to that and so he says nothing, remaining mute for the rest of the drive toward Hannibal's home. When the car stops and Will lets himself out, the air is bitterly cold against his bare face. He closes his eyes and lets the pain ground him, squeezes his hand into a fist until he feels another fresh well of blood. He doesn't notice the other man until Hannibal takes Will's hand and examines the smear of blood across his fingers and palm. Silence has worked for Will thus far and so he shies away and says nothing, doesn't even bother trying to tug his hand from Hannibal's grip. When the doctor wants to see something he sees something, and Will knows there's absolutely no use in hiding anything from him.

(Later, much later, after the savage truth comes out and Will is left barely alive to pick up the pieces of his life, he'll think back to this moment as the beginning of an "us" and the end of himself in the singular. Or, put more precisely, the beginning of Will ceding his last bit of control and personal autonomy to a man more than willing to devour him whole. But in this very moment, even if he were to know what the next months and years would bring, he simply would not be able to bring himself to care. Not with Lecter holding his hand and the stinging cold against his bloodshot eyes and the promise of something approximating comfort within those old brick walls.)

"You've hurt yourself," Hannibal says, and Will isn't sure if he imagines the disapproving tone in the other man's voice. He examines the fingernail-shaped cut at the base of Will's thumb before glancing up. "The rush of endorphins isn't worth it, you know."

"I didn't do it on purpose," Will mumbles, caught for a few terrifying moments in Hannibal's gaze. "I wouldn't. I'm sorry," he finally tries, and Hannibal must accept that because he lets go Will's hand and allows the younger man to cut eye contact and drop his head.

"You don't deserve pain, William," Hannibal says, leading the way to his front steps. "Remember that."

Will is holding his injured hand carefully, fingers mimicking the doctor's touch. He thinks about how quickly body heat must dissipate in air this cold, wonders if Hannibal minded Will's hand marred with dirt and blood. "Somehow, I don't think what I do and don't deserve has anything to do with it. Do you?"

"I think you get pain from too many places to further suffer injury at your own hand." Hannibal unlocks and holds open the door, gesturing him inside.

(A massive gesture of trust and a conniving one too; when Will crosses the threshold first, he does it of his own free will. _Step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly._ )

The house is spacious and affluent and perfectly suited to the man who calls it home. Will finds himself staring and waiting, though what for he can't say. At Hannibal's urging he holds back his shoulders so the other man can take his coat and hang it on the hooks by the door. His coat looks paltry compared Hannibal's, both with regards to size and luxury. One coat is pathetic and worn around the edges, kept for one too many winters out of a weary sentimentality that causes its owner to collect strays and experience emotional duress when it comes to throwing out anything. The other is tailored to fit snugly and fight off the cold with ease, made of a darkly-dyed wool and lined with something that looks soft and comfortable.

"Something on your mind?" Hannibal asks, shrugging off his suit jacket and hanging that up as well. He remains in dark slacks and a matching waistcoat, loosening his tie as he speaks. It's a strangely intimate gesture and reminds Will of the hand on his cheek and the arms around his body and the softly disappointed sigh at the cut on his palm. Will's cheeks burn and he looks away.

"Even my internal monologue is ridiculous," he mutters, taking a few uncertain steps deeper into the opulent space. He knows the kitchen and the dining room, but he never was good at memorizing layouts unless there were dead bodies sprinkled about. Will can feel the other man's eyes on his back as he walks aimlessly, hands shoved into his pockets.

"Are you feeling better?"

"For a certain quality of better, I suppose. You promised me food?"

"After we tend to your hand. Follow me."

Will is sure there must be first aid supplies somewhere else in the house besides the private bathroom connected to the master bedroom, but he finds himself in Hannibal's most personal space anyway. Well, he amends in his head, most personal besides the kitchen maybe, but the kitchen is stainless steel and mahogany cupboards and counter space to die for. His bedroom on the other hand is... soft. Luxurious floor-to-ceiling drapes (of course) and an honest-to-God four poster bed (why is he even surprised?). Rich colors, warm colors, a mix of patterns that manage to pull themselves together as easily as his dark plaid suits and bright paisley ties. Will stands awkwardly in the doorway as Hannibal crosses into the adjoining bathroom and returns with a small case.

"Take a seat," Hannibal says as he unbuttons his cuffs and pushes up his sleeves. Will looks around for a moment before sitting on the edge of the bed, suddenly full of nervous energy and fear. He stretches out his hand and Hannibal takes it, fingers deft and eyes focused as he examines the cut.

"You did quite a number here with your fingernail. It's not deep, but we wouldn't want it to get infected, would we?"

The tone in Hannibal's voice is the same tone Will uses to soothe skittish strays and earn their trust. His warm touch disappears for a moment so he can tear open a small package, and the sharp smell of antiseptic hits Will's nose. "This will sting."

"I could do this myself," Will says. "You don't need to fuss over me, I'm not a..."

Hannibal wipes his hand gently, pressing the small cloth against the wound for a few seconds before moving to clean the smeared blood. "Not a what?"

The room tilts and Will closes his eyes, taking deep breaths to steady himself. More of that antiseptic smell, clean and sterile and too bright against his nose. It reminds him too much of hospitals and the kind of doctors who'd want to study him and not let him leave at the end of the day. Under that, a dirty taste of blood in the air, raw and organic. He thinks about crime scenes and how they're cleaned (not that he's ever stayed around for that part, but surely someone must do something?), about scrubbing away the truth etched out in blood and flesh until nothing remains. He thinks of being strapped to a chair with a tourniquet wrapped around his arm, prepping to draw blood.

"Breathe, Will," Hannibal murmurs, and Will lets out a gasp he didn't even know he was holding. Will opens his eyes and sees Hannibal pressing a soft cotton square against his hand.

"I don't know what's happening anymore," Will says, hating the way his voice shakes.

"You're tired." There's that gentleness again as Hannibal wraps a bandage around the lower part of Will's hand. "You've had an exhausting day and your mind would like you to stop, please."

"I'm not a child," Will manages, "so why do I-"

Hannibal presses his lips, feather-light, against the top of Will's bandaged hand. He looks at the other man as he presses the hand to his own cheek, lets the fingers rest against the line of his jaw and brush the bottom of his ear. "It doesn't matter why, does it?"

It's too much, absolutely too much and Will's vision swims with tears that should have been completely spent by now. "I can't. I can't, I'm not strong enough, I don't even know who I am most of the time-" He starts sobbing again and hates himself for it, hates even more how he tenses when Hannibal moves to sit on the bed and pulls Will into his arms. This, too, is too much, too much contact and too much care and too much of everything he's been starving for. He can barely handle eye contact on the best of days and _this_ is just sensory overload, excruciating in its kindness. He sobs harder when Hannibal pulls him against his chest and strokes his hair.

"It's eleven forty-nine PM," Hannibal prompts.

Will closes his eyes and mumbles, "It's eleven f-forty-nine. I'm in, in Baltimore. Baltimore, Maryland." He swallows. "My name is Will Graham."

Will can feel the other man tilt his head down and breathe deeply against his hair. "Good," Hannibal says. "Again."

Slowly Will is brought back to his body and away from the pending panic attack. He manages a half-decent breath and relaxes against Dr. Lecter's body, warm and strong and holding him in place. His hand aches and his stomach churns and his brain pounds angrily against his skull. Will repeats his mantra several times over before he realizes the other man is rocking him gently and speaking in the spaces of silence.

"Repetition is calming, grounding," comes the low voice behind Will's ear. "It gives us a sense of stability, something to expect."

"Jack promised to be my bedrock," Will whispers, head buried against Hannibal's chest for the second time that night.

"And is he?"

Will shakes his head, murmurs his mantra like a prayer and then adds, "Just sand."

Hannibal takes a deep breath and Will finds himself breathing in tandem, slow and steady and real. "You deserve more than sand, William."

Will closes his eyes and keeps breathing with the doctor, letting him rock away more of his anxiety. "I'm so tired of being weak. I'm tired of needing them, needing Jack and, and them."

"'Them' being the people you empathize with?"

"God, I'm so fucked up. Yes. That them."

"We all have our weaknesses, Will. They only control us if we let them."

"Then you tell me how to stop hurting and I'll get right on that," Will says bitterly, hands clutching Lecter's sleeves.

The other man touches his injured hand and says, "You could start by not reopening that wound."

Will lets his hand relax and with it gives a heavy sigh. "Pain is grounding."

"It also almost made you pass out."

"Not from the pain, from the... the everything." Now the room's stopped spinning Will has the peace of mind to feel embarrassed again for being held by the doctor. He pulls away, leaning over the edge of the bed and rubbing the back of his neck. Hannibal lets him. "I keep losing myself. It keeps happening more and more often, and it keeps getting harder and harder to come back. I don't _want_ to come back sometimes, because then I'd have to own up to being..."

"Out of control?"

"Crazy. But same thing, I guess."

Hannibal stands and starts packing away the first aid kit, giving Will some desperately needed space. "It sounds like you absolutely need some rest, then."

Will lets out a short, humorless laugh. "Let's tell Jack Crawford then that I'm off the case because I finally lost my marbles."

"You cannot function as you have been," Hannibal says, snapping the case shut. "That's a fact. Leave Jack to me, and I'll see what I can do to help."

Will brushes away the lingering tears on his face and looks up at Hannibal with a tired smile. "Are you my official guardian angel then, against the mean old world?"

"If I have to be." Hannibal gives a half-smile of his own in return. "Come with me. We'll find you something to eat and worry about everything else in the morning."

He walks out into the hallway and after a moment, Will follows.


End file.
